


To Live in Sin

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [19]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Humor, Light Angst, Post-Season/Series 04, Smut, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22874521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Stakeouts may be boring, but this is aterribleidea.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 42
Kudos: 294





	To Live in Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Day 19! Prompt: Denial/Humiliation

This is a _terrible_ idea.

Life, on the whole, hasn’t changed drastically in the months since Lucifer came back from Hell, since Chloe agreed to try whatever this thing is they’re trying. People die in often bizarre ways. Lucifer makes off-color jokes that Chloe pretends she doesn’t find funny. Lucifer mind whammies suspects, and Chloe chases the bad guy. Paperwork exists. The only real difference is that when she has Trixie, they have home cooked meals, karaoke, monopoly. And when she doesn’t, there’s whiskey, a really nice jacuzzi, and a truly ridiculous amount of sex.

But. Stakeouts.

Once the stuff of painful personal revelations, shockingly intimate bonding, arguments over cool ranch puffs, and, above all, crushing boredom, stakeouts now mostly consist of what Lucifer calls ‘marathon edging sessions’. Chloe can’t say she entirely disagrees.

He sits there, simmering beside her, like a pot that wants nothing more to be watched, shooting her nigh constant heated looks that make her ears turn pink like she’s a schoolgirl and not an adult with a child, a 401(k), and a wardrobe full of what he insists on referring to as ‘garish knitwear.’

And the _comments._

“But, _darling,_ time flies when you’re getting off!”

“How about a quickie in the backseat?”

“I wouldn’t even have to get undressed, I _promise_ you.”

“Just some fingering, then?”

“I know something better I could be doing with my mouth than talking.”

And tonight: “Detective, this is _boring.”_

“You know what?” She buries her head in her hands for a moment before glaring over at him. It is three o’clock in the goddamn morning, they have been staring at this empty warehouse for seven hours, waiting for someone who is definitely not going to show up, and he is such a… he is…

He is running his tongue over the inside of his teeth, his fingertips are tracing the line of his slacks in an absurdly suggestive way, and his eyes are doing something she can only describe as a mixture between a runway model’s signature move and a Harlequin hero’s best smolder. “What?” he challenges, lip curling.

Enter: the _terrible_ idea.

“Fuck it.” She lunges across the central console and wipes the smirk off his face. She presses her tongue past his lips, licks over his teeth, sucks on his lower lip until he’s moaning brokenly into her mouth. When she pulls back, they’re both panting and he’s blinking slowly, dazed.

He clears his throat and seems to gather himself. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting that to actually work.”

Maybe a minimum of three orgasms a night and eight on weekends is starting to rot her brain. Or maybe it’s that she risked more humiliation for a relationship worth so much less. She’s never going to besmirch the evidence lockup again— _never_ again—but maybe a little fun is worth a little risk. She’s got the Devil by her side, after all. What’s the worst that could happen? The paparazzi have already seen her tits, right?

Of course, as soon as clever fingertips brush the button of her jeans, reality slams into her with the force of a dozen sensationalist TMZ articles and a three month suspension pending investigation, and she bats his hand away. Even the Devil—possibly _especially_ the Devil—isn’t immune to bad press.

“This is a new definition of the phrase ‘fuck it’, then?” His voice is low and enticing, and _damn_ is it harder to ignore now that she’s heard it teasing and encouraging in her ear as he takes her from behind.

“I, uh…” She bites her lip, torn between anxiety and arousal, and he groans.

“You’re killing me here, love.” Yet as wrecked as he sounds, he’s not touching her at all, only turned as far toward her as the seat allows, hands clenched around his knees so hard his knuckles are pale. He is not calm, and he is not patient, but still, he waits.

“Someone could see,” she whispers, as if someone might hear as well. As if this parking lot they’re in isn’t utterly abandoned.

“Then their paltry existence would be vastly improved by the sight of you in ecstasy.”

She scowls at him. He smiles back innocently then lowers his voice. “No one is going to see.”

“We’re still on stakeout,” she says a little more firmly. She wonders who exactly she’s trying to convince.

“You know as well as I do that this enterprise is a complete bust and absolutely no one is going to show up.” When she frowns, he breaks the invisible barrier between them to tuck an escaped strand of hair behind her ear, a little of his frenetic energy dissipating. “Tomorrow, we’ll return to that pit of vipers you call a law office, and you can set me on them like a particularly sexy mongoose.”

“Isn’t that cobras?”

“Does it matter?”

She blinks. “No?”

“And _tonight,”_ he continues, “we can wait out the hour until shift change, and you can take me home and do delightfully naughty things to me.” His hand leaves the relatively neutral territory of her shoulder to trace along the chain around her neck, down until his thumb brushes the bullet hanging between her breasts.

This is a good plan, a _sensible_ plan. Coming from Lucifer, it’s practically a God given miracle, not that she’d ever tell _him_ that. They will finish the stakeout as intended and not have to worry about criminals or UNIs or Dan—who’s working backup since Trixie is with Maze doing something they insist on calling ‘summer camp’—or random strangers or _Dan_ hearing or seeing anything. It’s a good plan. It’s a _good_ plan. It…

She rubs her thighs together, trying to relieve the pressure, and Lucifer notices because of _course_ he does. He opens his mouth, eyebrow rising suggestively, and she cuts him off before he can say whatever undoubtedly asinine thing he’s about to say.

“No. Nope. Nuh-uh.”

He raises a placating hand, pulling away, and she can’t quite help the soft whimper that slips from her lips as he goes. It’s so quiet most people wouldn’t hear it, even in the relative silence of the car. But Lucifer Morningstar has never been ‘most people’ before, and he’s certainly not going to start now.

“So,” he says, voice dropping honey and sin as his gaze burns over her like fire, “as I see it, we have two options. Either we follow my perfectly _reasonable_ plan, go back to mine in”—he checks his phone—”fifty-two minutes, and have each other against every available surface, which is all of them, of course. Or…”

She can’t help but ask, “Or?” and curse herself for it.

He grins, and it is absolutely filthy. _“Or_ you lean your seat back, and I eat you out right here and now.”

Color rises in her cheeks, her clit throbs through two layers of clothing, and it is suddenly intolerably hot. Or unbearably cold. It’s hard to tell the difference. The Chloe with the kid, the retirement plan, and the questionable taste in sweaters becomes suddenly hard to hear. She shivers, feeling unbalanced. And then the Devil is there, whispering in her ear.

“Say yes, Chloe,” he breathes, heat brushing her neck. But he’s not touching her, still waiting for her word, and it’s this that convinces her, _this_ that allows her to really feel how his proximity is affecting her. How short her breaths are; how fast her heart is beating. How much she _wants_ this—to prove something to herself, or to him, or just because she desires it. Maybe that’s all she needs.

She turns her head slowly until they’re staring at each other, so close she can see every one of his eyelashes as they flutter. _“Yes,”_ she whispers into his mouth, but when he reaches for her, she wraps her fingers around his wrist and adds, “but I’m not taking my pants off in my cruiser.” At least this way if she has to chase after a suspect, she won’t be pulling her jeans up on the way.

His eyes gleam mischievously. “I can work with that.”

And then the real torture begins.

He doesn’t even unbutton her pants, to start with. Nor does he kiss her as she kissed him, though with how he’s licking his lips and staring at her, she knows he wants to. No, instead he _teases,_ pulling off his ring and slipping it into the glove compartment much more deliberately than necessary.. Reaching across the central console to play his fingertips over the denim. As if they have all the time in the world. As if they’re not in her car supposedly working, with her ex-husband an inopportune radio message away, and… Oh. _Oh._

He’s cupping her between her legs with one hand, providing just enough sweet friction her brain abandons higher thought. His other hand creeps over her chest, brushing the fabric of her blouse over where her tightening nipples press against the material of her bra. She gasps, and he chuckles softly.

“Quiet, now, darling. Wouldn’t want anyone to hear.”

She glares at him with all the heat she’s capable of while her hips are bucking into his hand. “I swear I will shoo… Oh, _shit.”_

The pad of his thumb skates over the denim above her clit until her breath hitches in her chest. When he tightens his hand on her breast, she arches into the contact. She reaches up, grips at the steering wheel for stability, and bites her lip to hold in a groan. An over-the-clothes hand job should _not_ be this good.

As if in answer to her thoughts, he speaks, with an annoyingly casual air. “Historically, some women wore a truly absurd number of layers. I had to get… creative.” Before she can respond, he’s pressing harder, and her fingers tighten against the plastic. He pinches her nipples through her shirt, and she clenches her jaw. And it’s so good— _so_ good—but it’s not enough. He rubs slow circles against her, fingertips ghosting over where she aches for him, and, still, it’s not enough.

“I need…” She reaches out for him and pulls him closer by the shirt collar. He comes willingly, more than willingly, knee pulling up awkwardly over the central console.

He kisses her, then nuzzles against her neck. “What do you need?” He nips over her collarbone, and she groans, not bothering to stifle the sound.

“Just… take them off.” She shimmies her hips so he gets the message, but he’s already there, thumbing the button open. The sound of the zipper is almost intolerably loud, and she glances around nervously until his fingertips hit cotton, and her eyes fall closed.

The problem, Chloe considers, as he tugs her jeans down a few inches and presses her underwear aside to tease her, is _not_ that if you give Lucifer an inch, he’ll take a mile, though he _would_ and _will_ and repeatedly and very cheerfully _does._ No. The _problem_ is that if you give him so much as a millimeter, not only will you willingly _give_ him the mile, you’ll also gladly fork over the whole, damn— “Oh, _shit.”_

She’s beginning to understand why Eve ate that apple. Fig. Banana. _Whatever._

She fits her hand to her mouth, biting into the meat of her palm as his thumb finds her clit and begins a punishing rhythm. He’s done teasing, it seems, unfastening the top buttons of her shirt and leaning further into her space to kiss over her throat, down to press his lips to the bullet for a moment before he mouths at her nipples through her bra. Her free hand finds his hair, teasing out curls, pulling his face even closer.

He grins against her skin, and his hand slips under the edge of her shirt to paint heat over her stomach. He twists his fingers within the awkward confines of her underwear, sliding one shallowly into her.

Tensing around him, she moans around her hand, parting her legs as far as she can. But it’s still not enough. She abandons the steering wheel and her mouth to drag her jeans further down, but he pulls away to grab her wrists, returning them to the wheel. She reaches for her pants again, and he repeats the motion.

“What the hell?” she asks, somewhere between a hiss and a groan, and he smirks, pressing a kiss to her temple. 

“We’re still on stakeout, Detective,” he sing-songs and nods toward the windscreen. “Watch the warehouse.”

She bristles, twisting in her seat to argue, and he takes her carefully by the jaw, turning her head to face forward. “Trust me, love,” he says in that low, compelling voice. “Watch, now.” As she bites her lip, trying to decide if she’s up for this game, he reaches across her lap and gets his hand on the seat controls, adjusting it back far enough that he can do what he promised. The Devil doesn’t break deals, after all.

She stops worrying about anything but the puffs of breath teasing her soaked underwear as he pulls her jeans down around her knees one handed. Her fingers tighten around the steering wheel hard enough it squeaks, and she stares straight ahead, panting slightly. His thumb hooks into the waistband of her panties, dragging them down. Her feet drum against the floor. The vinyl is cold against her skin, and it sticks a little painfully, but then a tongue is slowly caressing her clit, and she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anything but the fingers delving, finally two, _finally_ deep. And her hips are bucking against his face, and she’s grinding her teeth against the whine that wants to escape her throat, and—

 _“Fuck,”_ she groans, hands aching from the force she’s applying to the steering wheel.

He huffs out a laugh and twists his fingers. “Such _language.”_

“Like you can talk,” she forces out as he strokes her g-spot, the heel of his hand grinding into her clit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am a _very_ proper Dev— _Shit!”_ He snatches up her wrist from where she managed to slip past his knee and grab him between his legs. “That was cheating.”

“Oh, yeah, because you _nev—_ Oh. _Ohh.”_ His thumb finds her clit inerrantly, and she sets her feet steady on the floor for leverage. His lips trail up her blouse to tease at the exposed front clasp of her bra, and it pops open under his mouth. _“That’s_ cheating.”

He suckles at her nipples, and her complaints evaporate. He drops her hand to brace his against the central console, and she reaches up with both of hers to tangle in his hair. He doesn’t try to stop her this time, only rearranges his limbs to move closer. His head sinks between her legs again, and his lips fasten around her clit.

He redoubles his efforts, thrusting and twisting, sucking and humming against her, and she throws her head back, clinging to him. She strains against her jeans, legs trying to allow him more access, and he presses even closer. He adds a third finger, reaching and stroking and stretching, and she cries out, forgetting where they are. She bites her lip, eyes rolling up in her head, toes curling in her shoes, and she’s so close… she’s _so_ close… she’s—

“Hey, you guys had any luck yet?” Dan asks conversationally over the radio, and everything freezes. Chloe is suddenly, painfully aware of the vinyl sticking to her ass, of the smell of old snacks and stale sweat from hours of this stakeout, of the occasional car rumbling by on the next street over.

She scrambles for the receiver, thanking a god she doesn’t like much that neither of them accidentally turned it on mid terrible idea, calms her breathing until she sounds halfway normal, and holds the button down just long enough to say, “A-all quiet here.”

Lucifer chuckles, disengaging his mouth from her lady parts. She smacks the back of his head, and she can almost hear his shit-eating grin.

“Damn,” Dan says. “You wanna call it a night? It’s way past when Grainger said they usually meet. The next shift’ll pick up the position in half an hour anyway.”

Freedom. So close she can taste it. She licks her lips, preparing to say something sensible and normal, like, “Sounds like a plan. See you tomorrow.” But Lucifer’s fingers are still buried inside of her, and they twitch as she presses down the button, nothing leaving her lips but an elongated, breathy, “Yeah…”

“You okay, Chlo?” Dan asks.

And damn if the thrill of getting caught doesn’t cause her inner muscles to clench even as she stammers out a quick, “Just tired.”

“You _like_ this, don’t you?” Lucifer whispers when her finger leaves the button on the receiver. She tries to deny it but can’t force the words from her mouth. “Oh, _Detective,”_ he breathes, and his fingers start up a slow pace inside, “the things I’m going to do to you.”

“Tomorrow, we can do follow-ups at that law office,” Dan continues casually.

Chloe bites back a groan and says, “Yep. Yeah. Good idea.” Her finger’s barely off the button before Lucifer takes her clit gently between his teeth, and she moans openly, arching her back. She could push him away so easily, and she knows he wouldn’t resist, but the truth is she doesn’t want to, even as Dan speaks again.

“I still reckon it’s Weston. That guy doesn’t read right to me.”

“Quite… possibly,” she mutters as a clever tongue massages her clit. She takes a breath and holds it, fighting through the pleasure. “My money’s on Anderson.” Her pride at the steadiness of her tone dissipates as Lucifer once again begins that halting rhythm inside her. Her toes curl, her eyes roll up in her head, so close once more. But Dan is still talking. 

“Hm, maybe. Oh, uh, you good with hosting Taco Tuesday next week?”

She tries to speak—she _does,_ even holding down the button in anticipation—but it’s all she can do not to cry out as Lucifer holds her on the edge with his fingers inside and his thumb replacing his mouth on her clit.

“Love me a taco,” he cuts in before the silence can stretch. He nudges her labia with the tip of his nose, and she’s torn between wanting to hit him and wanting to let him do whatever he wants to her for the rest of her life.

“So that’s a yes, then?” Dan asks, amused. He’s been surprisingly supportive—or at least tolerant—of their relationship, but she doubts finding out what they’re getting up to in her cruiser would endear him to it much.

“Yes,” she says, then, dropping the receiver back onto the central console and throwing her head back once again, “yes, yes, yes, yes, _yes...”_

Her orgasm crashes over her as an all-consuming wave, her mouth open in a—thankfully—silent scream. Not that she’s thankful now, or even entirely aware of where she is or what’s happening besides the whole world stopping for one, perfect moment before she sags back against the seat.

“...perfectly alright, Daniel. I’ll take care of her. Goodnight.”

She drags herself back to awareness like she’s swimming through molasses to find Lucifer sitting back in his seat, face wet, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions, setting the receiver back into its holder. He traces his lips with the hand that was inside her, pulling his fingers into his mouth one by one and sucking them clean, all while staring at her.

She moans involuntarily, clenching around nothing, and realizes her thighs are soaked and sticking to the seat. Her bra is undone, breasts sticking out through her unbuttoned blouse. Her jeans and underwear are pushed down around her knees. Her hair has almost entirely freed itself from her ponytail. She should be embarrassed, brought so close to potential humiliation. She should be ashamed of abandoning responsibilities for simple pleasures. She should, at the very least, after coming so hard her ears are _still_ ringing, be sated for the moment.

She glances from the mess between her legs to the tent in Lucifer’s slacks to the abandoned parking lot they sit in. “Find me somewhere.”

“Pardon?”

She kicks the engine on and shoves her boobs back into her shirt, buttoning it enough to be halfway decent, not bothering with the bra. She pulls her pants up so she can better reach the accelerator and yanks out her hair tie, tossing it onto the floor. “Somewhere. Isolated, discreet, close.”

“You don’t want to go back to Lux?”

She shakes her head and pulls onto the street. “Too far.”

He’s still staring at her, looking like he either fell from grace a second time or just found religion, which for him would be quite a feat. “You haven’t gone bloody starkers, have you, love?”

“No.”

“Mind controlling fungus, perhaps?”

She bites her lip. “Not that I’m aware of.” 

“Assimilated by the Borg?”

She blinks. “The what?”

He frowns as she performs a rolling stop through an empty four-way intersection, eyes scanning the surrounding areas for anywhere that looks dark and reasonably out of the way.

“Didn’t sneak some of my Molly, did you?”

She glances at him as she turns a corner down a narrow side street. “You brought Molly to a _stakeout?”_

“Why are you surprised?”

And, well, fair point.

“Turn here,” he says suddenly, finally, apparently, on board with her plan. Some part of her is rather pleased he touched base with her after the way she’s been acting. The rest of her is just relieved he’s helping.

He leads her down increasingly uneven roads even deeper into the warehouse district, past broken streetlights and blazing neon signs and the earliest stirrings of false dawn gleaming purple and pale orange over the mountains. They make their way into a small parking garage with no ticket booth and not a single car. He guides her higher and higher until they reach the top level.

She shuts off the engine, pulls off her holster, and stows it in the glove compartment. When she hesitates over the door, he puts his hand on her arm until she looks over at him.

“If someone with a thought toward violence attempts to interrupt our good time, your firearm is the least of their worries.”

She nods, closes the compartment, and gets out of the car, finally yanking her pants up, if not fully on. Out of the car, with feet on solid ground, her uncertainties return. She glances up at the sky, far enough from downtown for a few lights to shine down on them, though there’s more planes and helicopters than planets or stars. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers as he rounds the hood, and she knows he isn’t talking about the sky. 

She goes to him, wraps her arms around his waist, their movements almost chaste if not for the heat of him against the curve of her stomach, the continuing tremble in her thighs. She tries to bury her face in his chest, but he catches her chin with two fingers and raises it to meet his gaze.

“Don’t hide, my love. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

She kisses him, then, under the sky, in the night, on the crumbling concrete, and takes his hand, leading him to the door to the back seat. He reaches out and opens it, the lock unlatching under his palm.

"In for a penny, in for a pound, Detective?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sense arises like a particularly inconveniently timed migraine and reason like a bad head cold. But she’s come this far, so she sits and slides to the opposite side. Thank someone the car was cleaned recently; she resolves not to worry about it. She turns so her back is against the other door, and he joins her, pulling the door shut behind him. Her shirt goes before she can overthink it, last few buttons finally unfastened. The bra comes with it, and she removes her necklace, watching his eyes track the movement. She kicks her shoes off and pulls off her socks, but when she goes to tug off her jeans and underwear, he stops her with a hand.

“May I?”

She expects him to lean into her space again, to reach for her waistband, to reignite the passion between them with his proximity. But he seems comfortable taking things slow for now and instead removes his suit jacket. He pulls out all the things he stores in it and lays it out on the seat. She finishes undressing and sits on the jacket, touching his wrist in what she hopes is a show of gratitude. It wasn’t much of a striptease, but he’s staring at her with dark eyes, his hands shaking.

 _“Chloe…”_ He whispers the word as if he’s afraid it will be lost to him otherwise.

She reaches for him, and he meets her, catching her hand and pressing his lips to her fingertips, her palm, the inside of her wrist, peppering kisses up her arm and over her collarbone. She unbuttons his shirt and runs her hands over his chest, dragging her fingernails down his stomach. He breaks away from her skin and moans.

“Lucifer,” she says quietly, pulling at his belt buckle, “touch me.”

He pinches at her nipples, sucks a bruise over her throat, brushes her hair from her face until she manages to unfasten his slacks and slip her hand inside. He hisses and bucks his hips, and his head falls onto her shoulder.

“You’ve been waiting so long, haven’t you?” she asks.

He tries to speak, but she adds a twist to her motions, and he chokes on a breath. His teeth scrape against her neck, and he pants.

She plays with the short hair on the nape of his neck, and he mumbles nonsense. She hums. “What, cat got your tongue? After all that, are you finally done teas—?”

The next thing she’s aware of, her hands are flat against the seat, an arm is supporting her hips, and Lucifer’s voice is at her ear, his body a hot, solid weight against her back. “What was that?” he asks, chuckling darkly.

“I _said,_ are you… are you… I…” His fingertips find her clit, his teeth nip at her earlobe, and she shivers. _”Fuck,_ Lucifer.” 

“So responsive,” he groans, fingers twisting inside of her. “Darling, had I known you were into dogging, we could have taken the corvette.”

“I’m not—” She bites back a whine and tries to stop from pressing back against him.

“I know you enjoyed that little game we played with Daniel. Don’t deny it.”

“No, I...I…” There’s the sound of ripping foil, a rustle as he adjusts himself. A sweet burn as he presses inside, an overwhelming sense of relief when their hips meet. She gasps open mouthed and clenches hard around him. 

He pauses, giving her a chance to adjust, breathing steadily by her ear. “Do you want me to tell you what I think?”

Words rise unformed to her lips, but he begins a slow, unhurried rhythm, and she can’t reply. Can only brace her elbows and knees on the seat and grind back against him, too slow, too slow, _too slow._

“You’re afraid,” he whispers.

 _“No,”_ she forces out. An automatic denial.

His hand comes up to cup her cheek, to tilt her head until their eyes meet. “You’re afraid of your desires. You stand at the edge of what you want and fear taking the final leap.”

“I don’t…” But she does. Strives for what she desires but is denied it. Tries to take what she wants but ends up settling for so much less. Even in whatever this is they’re doing, she’s been somewhat withdrawn. Has tried to keep too many things from changing because she _is_ afraid.

“You think it’s a sin to want this.”

She huffs out a breath, unbalanced. “I-I don’t care about _sin.”_

“Embarrassment, then. Humiliation. _Shame.”_ The word is ancient and bloody on his tongue, yet he seems to almost relish it. “Social sins, but sins nonetheless. ‘What will people think of me taking my top off in some ridiculous movie? What will people think when my partner says he’s the Devil? What will people _think_ after I have sex in the backseat of my cruiser?” He underlines his point by increasing his rhythm until she cries out, only to stop moving entirely. Her hips shift, desperate for stimulation, but he bears down until she can’t move at all.

“I know sin, love. Better than anyone. And _it_ is not what drags people down.”

She bites her lip. “But it _matters_ what people think.” Her job, her family, her _life…_ She’s not immune to how society views her. And neither is he, as much as he pretends otherwise.

But he doesn’t argue, merely grants her a soft smile so at odds with their situation it’s jarring. “I know. That’s something I learned from you.”

He brushes his lips over hers in a chaste kiss, and she sighs.

“But,” he continues, smirking more like the Devil than an angel now, though both, she knows, are hers to have, “it’s not the _only_ thing that does. Your desires are important, no matter what anyone thinks.”

She kisses him, this time, unable to stop herself. She realizes that she’ll gladly give him the inch _and_ the mile, because she knows he’d give the same to her. That he pushes, but he doesn’t take. That unlike the world outside this place they’ve made themselves, he will not judge. 

“So, tell me,” he asks, “what do you truly desire?”

“Fuck me,” she says, and there is no sin in it. 

His first thrusts are careful but not tentative. Testing but not teasing. The time for denial is over. He braces one hand on the door, the other on her hip, and presses a kiss to the nape of her neck. 

And then he starts to move in earnest, and she forgets where they are. Forgets everything but the soft wool under her hands and knees, the lips at her ear. The heat of the cock inside her, the fingers reaching between her legs. She pants and gasps and moans and whines, and he’s there with her, groaning encouragement into her ear. 

“You’re beautiful like this.”

“Is this everything you desired?”

“You feel so bloody amazing, love.”

“You can take more, can’t you?”

“Yes. _Yes,_ that’s it. That’s it...”

His slacks rub against her thighs when he bottoms out, his legs keep scrambling for purchase in the narrow space, and the seat isn’t as comfortable under her knees as it could be, but it’s perfect, perfect, _perfect,_ and she’s…

“Shit! Oh, oh, _ohh…”_

This was an _amazing_ idea.

She sags against the seat and moans brokenly, still clenching around him even as he continues to thrust, faster and faster. He grunts, and his hips buck wildly against her, dragging her over a second, smaller peak as he crests his. He collapses on top of her, limbs flailing. And there is a moment of glorious silence.

But then there’s a _crack,_ the sound of metal wrenching, a clattering as something falls. Many somethings. A waft of cool, early morning air drifts over Chloe’s sweaty, heated skin as Lucifer mutters, “Bollocks.” A beat, two, then something falls from the seat to shatter on the floor. Then everything stops, and it is quiet but for their panting breaths and the distant sound of cars. She takes a deep breath and leans her head up, glancing behind them.

“Did you just break my goddamn window?”


End file.
